Sunlight and Strawberries
by stormyhaze
Summary: As they picnicked in the orchard he noticed how the filtered light from the trees highlighted her face so that he could see the freckles on her nose. RonHermione, postHBP


Disclaimer: All characters are property of J. K Rowling, I am merely a fan.

Author's Notes: This is the first piece of fanfiction that I've written for years and the first time I've attempted writing in this fandom so reviews and constructive criticism and much appreciated.

**Sunlight & Strawberries  
**

While reading her reply to his invitation he had decided that he liked her name. It was simple without being plain, unique without being obscure and it just seemed to fit her. It was perfection that was timid and unsure and pretty without knowing it. As he wrote back he dragged the syllables out, over and over again in his head.

While reading her response for the fifth time he came to the conclusion that he liked her handwriting too. It was neat and joined up, all the words were spaced evenly and the lines never slanted. As the letter got longer her letters began to the lean to the right a little and the dots on the 'i's that had started so precisely placed began become further away from their stem but never did the lines slant. When she signed her name at the bottom perfect handwriting resumed.

When she apparated into the kitchen at the Burrow bright and early on Thursday afternoon he decided that while her punctuality was an admirable trait, he'd prefer it if punctuality began after 9am and when he was wearing slightly more than a dressing gown. At the same time he realised that her hair looked nice in the morning. It was still springy and the waves fell in just the right places - at the front they framed her face perfectly and the rest draped down her back just right. There was a single rogue strand that sprang out unusually, he considered brushing down for her but he quite liked the rebellious nature of that strand. She couldn't be perfect all the time.

When he asked her about her holiday so far he realised that he was genuinely interested in what she had to say and when she replied he decided that he liked how she spoke to him. Her voice was soft and easy to listen to and her mid-sentence interjections meant that it never became monotonous. The only problem was that her unfaltering eye-contact kept dragging his focus away from what she was saying and he began to search himself for words to describe how intense her hazel eyes were, how bottomless yet warm her gaze was. He realised that just from where he was sat he could read her every mood and search her soul for anything.

As they picnicked in the orchard he noticed how the filtered light from the trees highlighted her face so that he could see the freckles on her nose. He was sure that they were the result of the summer sun, they hadn't been there before. As they laughed about the twins' most recent product trial he saw how she wrinkled her nose when she laughed and how her eyes seemed to sparkle as he impersonated his mother choosing flowers for the wedding. Her laugh was infectious and sang through him until the smile she wore became imprinted on his face too.

While playing Quidditch he decided that the way she had propped herself up on her elbows to read was an artists dream. From the air he could see how her tiny feet merged into tiny ankles which offset the curve of her calves and the gentle indent of her knees before her thighs. Her camisole hid her back from view but he could see how tanned her shoulders were and how flawlessly smooth the skin on her neck was. She was so still and so serene that the soft flutter of a page turning was the only indication that she was awake.

At dinnertime his appetite was left forgotten once she began to nibble the lettuce from the salad bowl. He noticed the way that her fingers ran across her lips and how her eyes opened just that little bit wider when somebody made a joke. When she noticed him looking at her she blushed a little and started to bite her bottom lip. He liked how her lips deepened in colour and gradually became fuller as she nibbled them - he wondered if they'd be soft to touch, if they'd be warm.

When she went for a shower he decided to avoid conversation with the others by hiding in the study. He opened the window and watched dusk approach, the flawless blue sky slowly changed to pink and then to a spectacular orange. When she found him he was lost in his own thoughts but the sight of her in oversized pyjamas drew his attention. She came to the window and watched the sky with him. Suddenly he could smell the old, musty books, he could hear the crickets chirping in the garden, he could still taste his mother's homemade strawberry ice-cream on his tongue. She sat down on the sofa and started to read a thick book whose title he couldn't make out. As she read she nibbled and played with her bottom lip until he could think of nothing else but whether her lips tasted of strawberries too.

When he next turned his attention away from the now dark sky he found her asleep, her head gently resting on the arm of the sofa. He debated waking her and considered leaving her there but his desire to touch her clouded his judgement. He carefully prised the book from her small hands and placed it on the floor and then, as gently as possible, took her in his arms and carried her to her room, noticing on the way how her damp hair smelt like summer. As he placed her on the bed she stirred a little and as he softly brushed a strand of hair from her face she opened her eyes for a brief second and smiled.

When he went to bed he realised that she filled his thoughts. Despite every effort to clear his head she just wouldn't leave. Finally he accepted that maybe he didn't want to stop thinking about her name or her handwriting, her hair or her voice, her neck or her lips. He wanted to watch her write, he wanted to touch her hair, he wanted to hear her say his name, he wanted to touch her neck and kiss her lips. He wanted to have her with him so he could hold her. He wanted her. He wanted his Hermione.


End file.
